Rainbow's End (24 page)

The band were clearly expected for a small crowd had gathered, a good many of them children. The musicians formed a half-circle and started to play, and Ellen and her motley crew found a patch of untenanted grass, sat down on it and stared.

In the perambulator, Sammy craned his head to see, but Toby was not pleased that the gentle rocking of a perambulator in motion had suddenly ceased. As the trumpets began to play a joyful hymn Toby added his own voice to the music.

He simply bellowed, Ellen thought, terribly confused, as people around her advised her to ‘Shush!’ She plucked Toby out of the perambulator and put him over her shoulder, where he bawled louder than ever . . . and Sammy, suddenly bereft of his companion, started too.

‘Pick Sammy up, Dee,’ Ellen hissed.

‘What?’ Deirdre said absently. She was beating time to the music with a piece of twig, pretending she was the conductor.

‘Pick Sammy up,’ Ellen said loudly.

‘Do
what
?’ Deirdre repeated.

Ellen, sure that her small sister had heard every word, took a deep breath and shouted. ‘PICK . . . SAMMY, UP!’

Her voice drowned out the band, which chose that moment to sink to a dramatic, but soft, note. Ellen felt her face grow hot and acting quickly, before she forgot herself in front of everyone and clipped Deirdre across the ear, she dumped Toby back in the perambulator and plucked Sammy out of it.

‘Put me
down
, Ellie,’ Sammy shouted, tears running down his hot, red face. ‘I wanna
walk
.’

Toby was screaming again, so it seemed easiest and best to stand Sammy down, hissing at him to sit quiet now and watch the lovely fellers play, and to seize Toby out of the perambulator once more. What relief! Toby stopped screaming as though she had turned off a tap and Sammy stopped too. And set off, on fat little legs, across the grass towards the band. He held his hands out and beamed . . . but ‘Grab him, Dee!’ poor Ellen shouted, if you can shout in a whisper. ‘Don’t let him . . .’

Deirdre came out of her conducting trance and dropped her twig, then began to chase Sammy, but too late.

Sammy attached himself to the nearest object, which happened to be a black-clad leg, and beamed up at the owner far above him. ‘Sammy wan’ up,’ he said with disastrous clarity. ‘Sammy wan’ up
now
!’ And he proceeded to scramble up the black-clad leg.

To do him credit, the young man only stopped playing for a moment whilst he bent down – a perilous undertaking – and plucked Sammy up into his arms. And Sammy sat there, enthroned, and peered at the young man’s face with great interest, now and then patting the distended cheek so near his own.

Poor Ellen! Deirdre was too small to be of much help here, so she had to come forward and take the erring Sammy off the trumpet player herself. Or rather try to, for in the event Sammy refused to come. Limpet-like, he clung, resisting all Ellen’s gentle attempts to wrest him from his refuge.

Ellen stepped back, knowing her cheeks were now scarlet, feeling the perspiration beginning to trickle down the sides of her face. Just at that moment she would have loved to give her little brother a good, hard wallop – how could he behave so badly? But help was at hand. The hymn ended and one of the musicians detached himself from the rest and began to take a tin round the audience, many of whom promptly melted away or discovered urgent business elsewhere.

The trumpet player put down his instrument and smiled at Ellen. ‘Phew! He’s a handful, this little feller! Well, Sammy? D’you want to play me trumpet, is that why you come over an’ climbed me as if I was a perishin’ tree? Come on then, gi’s a blow.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ellen said, even more confused now that she saw the young man was extremely handsome, with golden-brown curly hair and twinkling hazel eyes. ‘They was asleep, you see, an’ when they woke they wanted to get out o’ the pram, an’ then Sammy . . . well, I never knowed him be so naughty.’

‘Oh, he ain’t naughty, he’s just bein’ himself,’ the young man said easily. ‘Just let him have a go wi’ me trumpet, then he’ll very likely want to play on the grass.’

He held the trumpet to Sammy’s lips and Sammy took it in his mouth and dribbled and chewed and finally blew, then sat back and beamed all round.

‘Well, you are a clever feller,’ the trumpeter said. ‘Goin’ down now, are you? Your sister wants to play “ring a roses” wi’ you, young feller-me-lad. Ah, what’s that I hear?’

It was the bell of an ice-cream cart trundling around looking for business. The twins and Sammy turned eagerly towards the sound of the bell but Ellen clapped her hands to her hot cheek. ‘Oh blimey, I ain’t gorra penny piece,’ she groaned. ‘I’ll gerrem out o’ here afore you start to play agin, ’cos when they know they can’t have ices there’s bound to be ructions.’

‘Oh, I’ll mug ’em for an ice each,’ the young man said easily. ‘An’ you an’ all, Miss . . . what’s your name?’

‘I’m Ellen Docherty,’ Ellen said shyly. ‘An’ them’s the twins, Deirdre an’ Donal. The baby’s Toby an’ t’other . . . well you know Sammy already!’

‘True. And to keep the record straight I’m Alfred Tolliver, but me pals call me Tolly. Come on, then, Ellen, here’s some cash, you go an’ buy the ices.’

‘Thanks, Mr Tolliver,’ Ellen said shyly. ‘I’ll pay you back next time I see you – I start a job, Monday.’

‘No need; and I’m Tolly, remember? Callin’ me “mister” like that. How old d’you think I am then, eh?’

‘Oh, eighteen?’ hazarded Ellen. ‘Nineteen?’

Tolly laughed. ‘That’s ’cos I’m tall. I’m norra lot older than you, I dessay. You’ll be fourteen? Fifteen?’

‘Fourteen,’ admitted Ellen. ‘How old are you then, mist . . . I mean Tolly?’

‘I’m fifteen,’ the lad admitted, for Ellen now realised that he was only a lad; it was the uniform and his height which had made him seem older. ‘Where’s you workin’ then, come Monday mornin’?’

‘At a brand-new confectionery shop on Heyworth Street,’ Ellen said proudly. ‘Where does you work, Tolly?’

‘I’m at Flett’s the jam factory on Black Bull Lane; I’m a clerk there,’ Tolly said. ‘I’ll come wi’ you to get them ices or I’ll be back playin’ again afore I’ve handed me money over. Come on, kids, see who can git there first!’

They ran, Tolly pushing the perambulator, then they all sat on the grass and ate the ices, and Tolly accepted a mouthful from Sammy, who seemed to have taken a real liking to him, though he had to be careful, he said, because he was in uniform.

They had by no means finished their treat, however, before the band started to form up again. Tolly got to his feet, brushed himself down and grinned at Ellen. ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘See you around, I ‘spec’.’

‘Where’s you goin’?’ shouted Donal. The twins also liked Tolly, Ellen realised, as she herself did. ‘Can we foller on behind? Will you play agin?’

Tolly turned back for a moment. ‘We’ll be goin’ back to the Citadel, now,’ he said. ‘That ain’t on your road, Donal. Be good now, an’ do what your sister tells you.’

‘Awright,’ Donal called back. ‘’Bye, Tolly! See you around.’

Well, Ellen, that’s give you somethin’ to think about, Ellen told herself as she climbed into her bed that night. All the twins had talked about when they got home had been Tolly, who had bought them ices.

Ada had looked at her daughter, startled, and she had smiled. ‘Well I never,’ she murmured. ‘D’you know, Ellie, I hadn’t noticed before?’

‘Noticed what?’ asked the unsuspecting Ellen. ‘Do I have a smut on me nose?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’d not noticed how grown up you’re getting, nor how pretty you’ve become.’

‘Pretty? Me?’ Ellen said, thoroughly startled. No one with four elder brothers and three younger ones can have any illusions about their looks. ‘Oh g’wan, Mam, I’m not pretty.’

‘You are,’ Ada insisted. ‘You’ve got lovely brown curls, beautiful blue eyes and a neat little figure. Yes, you’re pretty.’

The only boy present, Bertie, had made a few rude remarks at that, but under his breath; he didn’t fancy a thump round the lug from Ada, or from herself, Ellen supposed. And after that Ellen had been too busy to dwell on either her mother’s remarks or on her new-found friend. But later, as she got into bed . . .

Am I really pretty? she thought. I liked Tolly ever so, but did he like me? Why should he? Although he’s only fifteen he looks much older, and he plays the trumpet beautiful and wears a lovely uniform . . . what am I to him?

A pretty girl, said a little voice inside her head, but Ellen refused to listen to it. No point in even thinking it, she told herself severely. But on Monday I’ll be a working girl, norra kid at all. I’ll have a good job in me aunt’s cake shop and, even if I’m bored serving customers and helping in the bakery, I’ll have a bit of money to spend. Surely then fellers will take me seriously?

And presently she went to sleep and dreamed of a tall bandsman with dancing dark eyes and a beautiful deep voice . . . even though, in her dream, he took no notice of a small, brown-haired girl whose only claim to fame was that she had the naughtiest brothers in the whole world!

About a month later, Ellen knew that working in the cake shop had been a bad mistake, but with work so difficult to find – and even more difficult to keep – she had very little choice but to grit her teeth, square her shoulders and continue to serve the customers, and trek between the bakehouse and the shop with huge baskets of her aunt’s wares.

The money was not brilliant, but it was not bad, either. Many of Ellen’s schoolmates were paid far less for far harder jobs. The trouble was that the other girls in the shop and bakery kept aloof from Ellen, whispering in corners and never including her in their jokes or conversation.

‘They think I’ll tell tales of ’em to me aunt,’ she said furiously to Tolly one evening when the two of them were strolling home after a band concert in the park. ‘As if I would, Tolly! Why, I work twice as hard as the rest of ’em to prove I’ve not got the job just ’cos the boss is me aunt, an’ they snigger behind their hands an’ pile even more work on me. I near broke me back wi’ the weight of bread in me delivery basket yesterday, an’ Aunt never gi’ me a word o’ thanks. I tell you, Tolly, I’m off out o’ it as soon as somethin’ else turns up.’

‘Clerkin’ in a jam factory ain’t a lot o’ fun, either,’ Tolly said mildly. ‘I’d like to do somethin’ more worthwhile meself. Tell you what, Ellie, we’ll keep our eyes open, you an’ me, an’ if either of us sees a job that ’ud fit the other, we’ll tell. Two heads is better’n one, I’ll be bound.’

‘Oh,
yes
,’ Ellen breathed happily. ‘Why, we might even gerra job in the same shop, or factory or whatever, Tolly! You’ve made me feel much more cheerful.’

‘Good; same here,’ Tolly assured her. ‘Dead-end jobs make borin’ workers; we won’t be borin’ much longer, Ellie!’

Chapter Eight

Dublin, December 1912

Maggie came carefully down the stairs in Dally Court, trying not to make them wobble too much and stepping gingerly over the gaps, and on the bottom step her sister Biddy was sitting, with a basket of shopping beside her. Maggie slowed.

‘Sure an’ what are you doin’ there, Biddy me darlin’?’ she asked. ‘I thought Mammy said you’d gone round to see Albert, didn’t she? I’ve just come from there, an’ she said somet’ing about Albert an’ yourself, so she did.’

Biddy, who had once been so sickly, had grown into a beauty. At just sixteen, she had all the boys after her, particularly Albert McCann, whose father owned a chemist’s shop on Thomas Street and was thought to be a great catch. But now, hearing her sister’s voice, she turned and smiled up at her with a good deal of mischief in her glance. ‘Oh, you know our mammy,’ she said tolerantly. ‘If she’s so fond of Albert, why doesn’t she marry him herself? Faith, who does she t’ink I am? I’m not throwin’ meself away on a feller wit’ his nose always stuck in a book.’

‘We-ell, he’s got a grosh o’ money, I’m told,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘An’ he’s handsome enough, if you don’t mind the specs.’

‘Well I do mind ’em, so I do,’ Biddy said pettishly. ‘’Tis Patsy Craven I like, Mags me darlin’, but whether or not he likes me is another matter. Anyway, I’m goin’ to the pictures wit’ him tonight, whether Mammy likes it or not.’

‘Oh dear,’ Maggie said apprehensively. Her mother had grown bitter and difficult over the past few years and spent a good deal of time grumbling that her daughters neither understood nor appreciated her. It’s all right for me, Maggie told herself now, because I can walk away from it, so I can, but the others . . . oh, dear.

‘You may well say,
Oh, dear
,’ Bridget said ruefully. ‘You’re away from it, Mags. And now you’re workin’ . . .’

Maggie had begun to work for a wage, as against simply working for her keep, when little Ticky had started school. It wasn’t much of a job – she sold fruit three days a week for an elderly woman dealer on Thomas Street who wanted to retire but still needed some money coming in – but at least she earned some money and it got her out of the house.

In fact, Mrs Nolan had also started to pay her a small wage when she had her fifteenth birthday. She could still remember the day and her own surprise.

‘Fifteen, eh, Maggie?’ Mrs Nolan had said, smiling at her. ‘Well, well, I never thought you’d still be wit’ us when you hit fifteen!’

‘Nor me, Mrs Nolan,’ Maggie had replied, returning the older woman’s smile. ‘But we’re used to each other, wouldn’t you say? Oh, I know if I went you could replace me easy, now the twins is older an’ Ticky’s near on school age, but . . .’

Mrs Nolan looked thoughtful. ‘Could I, though?’ she said. ‘I’m t’inkin’ you wouldn’t be so easy to replace, Maggie McVeigh. You fit our ways awful well, so you do.’ And she had produced a small envelope from her pocket and handed it to Maggie across the kitchen table, for Maggie was baking and Mrs Nolan had just finished washing up the breakfast dishes.

Maggie took the envelope. It’ll be a birthday card; the first she’s ever give me, she thought to herself as she opened it. Still, better late than never, I suppose.